chapter 2

Intermittently I have to tell myself we had no past

And essentially that wanting you is just insane

There are those who say that it’s customary for a man to ask

In actuality I have been known to jump the train

But it’s so good to see you

(song lyrics by Shawn Colvin)

Anders takes another gulp of vodka, looking with some consternation at Mitchell who sits opposite him in the booth of the Shakespeare. The vampire is lounging against the dark wooden side of his seat, one knee pulled up, still regarding him with that same liquidy expression as though Anders had miraculously returned from some deadly spy mission…

And he looks bloody awful.

Well, as awful as Mitchell could look. He’s paler than Anders remembers, and thinner, and there are dark circles under his intense hazel eyes.

And he’s drinking a god damned ginger beer…??

They’d spent most of the day wandering around town, finally ending up down by the pier where the sea breeze had tossed the boats in their moorings and played glorious havoc with Mitchell black curls. Anders had found himself babbling on about J:PR, and Dawn and Ty’s recent engagement, and the weather in New Zealand compared to England, while Mitchell had mostly listened. Anders couldn’t help noticing that even with the cold wind lending a brightness to his eyes and cheeks, Mitchell still looks so damned sad…

Not that he can’t relate.

For Anders the last three months have veered between emotions he’d never experienced for anyone before. He’d woken up that awful morning with his body healed, but his mind still terrorized, his heart hammering, afraid first that Mitchell was still there and then shocked that Mitchell was gone… He wouldn’t even admit to himself how much he had relied on the skyping with Annie and George once they had initiated it. Skyping, and drinking, and trying not to sleep too deeply…

“So let me get this straight,“ he begins, “You're not drinking blood. You aren’t drinking alcohol either—“he nods at Mitchell’s drink with a twist to his mouth as he takes another sip of his own nearly finished vodka, “You don’t appear to have been eating…are you even fucking anymore?”

Mitchell smiles. “Nice to see you haven’t changed, mate.”

“You’re not are you?”

“Not what?”

“Fucking anyone?”

Mitchell laughs softly, shaking his head. Anders leans his head forward, resting his chin on his fist, looking at the vampire with wide eyes.

“My god you’re not even fucking yourself are you?”

“Anders…!”

The waitress who had been approaching their table turns on her heel towards a different table upon overhearing them, but Anders calls her back. She steps up to their table hesitantly, her eyebrows raised.

“What can I get for ya then?”

The blond turns the full strength of his smile towards her. “Yes, my friend and I would like to order a great deal of food. What are your specials?”

“Ahhh well, the kitchen doesn’t open for another 45 minutes, but we can do soups and salads for you in the meantime?”

Anders shakes his head, “No, no that won’t do.” Smoothly accessing Bragi, the blond gazes charmingly at their waitress, “You go back in there and tell them two expensive looking gentlemen are requesting full surf-n-turf meals right away, and if they are resistant send them out to talk to me, there’s a good girl.”

She blinks and smiles, “All right, I’ll be right back.”

“And on your way back could you bring a Guinness for my friend please?”

“Yes, of course.”

Anders turns back to Mitchell, tossing back the rest of his drink, a look of pure joyous naughtiness on his face. The brunet has folded his arms across his chest and regards Anders with a permanently fixed eyeroll.

“’expensive looking gentlemen’?” he says, picking at his worn flannel shirt.

“I HAVE offered to help you with your wardrobe in the past. It’s never too late you know…”

“Anders…”

The blond leans forward, grasping one of Mitchell’s arms and prying it loose from its folded position, then pulls Mitchell’s hand in its fingerless green glove across the table and cradles it in his own hands. Anders hooks his index finger into the space between the knitted glove and Mitchell’s wrist and slowly pulls the glove from the brunet’s hand.

“You are riding on way too many wagons, mate.” Anders whispers, his thumb circling against the skin of Mitchell’s bare palm. “And I am going to really enjoy causing you to fall off of as many of them as I can while I’m in town.”

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